


Take a Shot

by Mayhem21



Series: Last Call [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: Red Team isn’t like the Blues. For North, this squad of misfits is exactly what he needs to keep fighting.





	1. Post Battle Comfort (Isn’t in a Bottle)

The war on Chorus is turning brutal. Today’s conflict had been short but terrible, a blur of Chorus soldiers in tan and white fighting to escape the ambush the mercenaries of Charon Industries had set. The air had been filled with the snarl of alien weaponry and the ear piercing shriek of automatic rifles. Then a grenade flew and everything would turn white as the ground exploded underfoot and bodies tore through the air.

It’s been years since North rushed to take a bloody battlefield against a tide of terrified bodies.  His training and fighting skills came back easily and he never lost the burning desire to protect his team. The mental fortitude to charge _into_ danger, to _kill the enemy before they kill you_ , is considerably harder to reclaim.

The Battle of Armonia had been easy. He’d been dead inside, the enemy’s attack an inconvenience more than a personal threat. Protecting the Reds’ and Blues’ lieutenants was only a means to an end; with them, he had an additional weapon to wield against Locus.

Against all odds, the Reds and Blues reappeared alive and triumphant, tearing away the mask of deception Locus and Felix had worn while carrying out their genocidal plan. And suddenly, North had reason to live again and everything got hard again.

In the battles that followed, it’s Red Team’s unflinching determination and willpower that keeps North going. Grif and Simmons manage to yell and argue throughout each and every fight while Donut’s wicked tongue causes the pirates to freeze and stumble in surprise and confusion, leaving themselves vulnerable attack. Even Lopez’s monotone, incomprehensible insults have become a welcome, familiar sound. Most importantly of all, Sarge howls with the fury of a berserker, always pushing them forward and keeping them focused on their mission to slaughter the enemy. His team grounds him in _why_ he’s fighting, _who_ he wants to protect, and prevents him from getting lost as they all plunge into chaos.

Wash had teased him for not taking command of the Reds, dryly pointing out that he could hardly do worse than he had as Blue Leader but North doesn’t want that. And whatever Sarge’s faults may be, it’s his voice roaring in North’s ear that stiffens his spine to race forward into danger, that send hims tearing into clusters of foes an agent of Project Freelancer is especially suited to dispatch. Without Sarge, North doesn’t know if he could keep fighting like this.

Ultimately, Red Team isn’t like the Blues. Their numbers and membership have remained steady over the years and they operate with a cohesion the Blues lack. North slides into the dynamic like a perfectly fitted glove.

The fights end and Red Teams checks itself over, breathing a sigh of relief each time they all make it through alive. And on days like today when one of them gets hurt, no one gets left alone to deal with the aftermath.

Grif caught some shrapnel in his shoulder shoving Private Matthews out of danger. His armor handled most of the deadly pieces of metal but a few got through. Enough that he’s spending the night in the hospital in a room they aren’t allowed to linger in.

His lover’s first injury had turned out to be minor but as Grif had been wheeled away covered in blood and gore, North felt something in his head breaking. Somehow, he’d had just enough presence of mind to clutch at Sarge’s elbow and blurt out _Don’t let me drink_.

He wanted to stop thinking, wanted to blur the memory of Grif’s orange armor plates covered in dark red. There was a lump of ice in his stomach he knew a few drinks would melt and a few more after that would make everything stop until the next day. It would be so _easy_ and that _terrifies_ him.

Sometime between then and now, Red Team adjusted how they wind down from battle to make sure he doesn’t drink himself unconscious after each fight.

Sarge bellows and berates them while herding them like lost ducklings to the Armory where he forces them to strip and clean every bit of their armor, to check over their weapons, and sharpen their knives. They’re stupid, useless, good-for-nothing, horrible soldiers. He’s ashamed to be seen with them, he may as well kill them all himself and find a new batch of Reds to train up properly. The litany is familiar and soothing. North’s hands usually stop shaking by the time he’s scraping mud or dirt out of the audio projectors in his helmet, listening to Sarge glorify other, better, Redder soldiers he’s fought with before.

From there, they move to the small office Red Team has commandeered as their personal breakroom and the more colorful parts of their personalities come out.

On days when Simmons has turned pale and won’t stop clutching at his cybernetics, North ushers them around the battered, unsteady coffee table and pulls out his notes from the old fashioned pen and paper roleplaying game he’s leading them through a few hours at a time. _(South used to roll her eyes and grumble about his weekend activities. How had she ended up with such a_ **_nerd_ ** _for a brother? He was cool in so many other ways, why did he play these lame games about wizards and knights in shining armor?)_

Donut’s bad days lead to manicures and pedicures all around. Grif refuses to let Donut work on his hands and Simmons gets panicky when the pink _(lightish-red! Seriously!)_ soldier starts flourishing homemade nail polish he’s bartered for. Sarge, on the other hand, is always dead asleep by the time Donut is lifting his feet out of the hot water bath to clean and trim his toe nails.

When glass bottles start singing their siren song to North, it’s Grif or Sarge who start telling stories. Sometimes both. Sarge’s are, of course, all about the battles he’s fought. There’s a fanciful air to them as he embellishes the height he’d dropped into battle from, the number and size of the enemy, the thrilling heroics he’d performed. Grif hits back at the exaggerations with a roll of his eyes and adds his own spin while Sarge sputters in indignation. Other times, Grif digs into the mythology of his childhood and spins out unfamiliar, brilliant stories of ancient Polynesian gods and demigods, the complex consonants and vowels of his native language rolling effortlessly off his tongue.

Grif’s discomfort is harder to spot, buried as it is behind layers of derision and nonchalance. It’s only as he relentlessly nitpicks at Simmons, snarls at Sarge, and leans against North that they realize something’s wrong. Those are quieter nights where they put on a movie they’ve already seen a hundred times and just talk while the film rolls in the background. Meanwhile, snacks materialize and are passed without acknowledgement around the room. _(Alcohol used to flow freely as well but disappeared after the first time Grif got hurt.)_

The hardest nights are when Sarge can’t shake the fury of the battle or the terror that he might lose one of the soldier’s he’s struggled to keep alive for so long. When that happens, when Red Leader’s personal demons lash him with poisoned whispers, there’s nothing else they can do but let him yell at them while he tinkers with and repairs Lopez, to scream and _fight back_ , proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re all alive and that he hasn’t failed.

The rest of the time, when they’re all just tired and happy to be in one piece, they relax together, taking comfort in the others’ familiar presence and letting each of them wind-down however they like. And that means Sarge grumbling while Grif and Simmons banter and share slightly stale rations. Donut grins wickedly at North and shows off the latest polish colors he’s acquired, insisting that he pick one so he can see how good or bad this batch is. _(Wash laughs every time North shows up to breakfast with different color nails while Carolina shakes her head in resigned incomprehension.)_

Tonight, though, Grif is in the hospital and North can’t stop shaking. The memory of Theta’s pain surges in his head and fear of losing Grif sight-unseen like he had South clogs his throat. He won’t sleep tonight but neither will Sarge, slouching in a battered armchair and grousing about some clean-up duty years ago on some distant world. Donut is filling a bowl with warm water for manicures while Simmons lounges on the other end of the couch, a battered fantasy novel in his hands while his legs stretch across the cushions so he can’t help but jab North’s side every now and then whenever he shifts weight.

With luck, Grif will be back with them tomorrow or the day after with new scars and thoughts he wants to share about whatever came to mind as he lay in the hospital. North lets Donut dunk his fingers in the water while he interrupts Sarge to ask about a detail in his story. Simmons’s toes press briefly against his hip and some of the terror clawing at him loosens. He won’t be okay until he has his lover back but as long as he has his team, North knows he’ll make it through the night.


	2. Timing is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carolina's morning isn't starting out the way she planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came out of ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE while I was running errands today. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The New Republic hasn’t been in Armonia for even two days when Carolina found herself cursing up a storm in the bathroom of her private quarters. The bright red smear on the bath tissue was shocking, unwelcome, and had arrived at the _worst_ possible time.

Still swearing, she tossed the paper into the bowl and tried to think back and count how long it’d been since she got her latest bio implant. The inhibitor was good for six years… she sighed. She’d gotten it on the Mother of Invention before the project imploded and everything went to hell. In the early days on her own, as she recovered from Maine’s attack, she remembered being grateful that she had a fresh implant, that she wouldn’t have to worry about _that_ on top of everything else.

Which didn’t help her _now_.

Groaning softly, Carolina pressed her palms against her eyes. Her legs were starting to tingle from sitting on the toilet so long. She needed to call Doctor Grey. Perhaps she could just bring a fresh inhibitor to her?

Well, she needed her helmet to make the call. She grabbed a wad of toilet paper and stuffed it into her underwear, then pulled the simple underthings up. God, she hadn’t had to do this since she’d been in _school_.

Pausing to cycle the toilet, Carolina quickly washed her hands and walked awkwardly out of the bathroom. The Reds and Blues, with Carolina in tow, had been given rooms in the remains of a hotel near the Federal Army command center in Armonia. While many of the upper levels were too damaged by artillery fire for habitation, the structural engineers had approved the lowest ten floors for use. And as thanks for their heroic deeds on behalf of Chorus, the Reds and Blues had been put up in the best suites on the surviving floors, the ones that had most of their original luxurious furnishings.

She couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else was having trouble sleeping on the plush king size mattresses. There were more pressing issues at hand, however.

Carolina hurried over to her armor and pulled her helmet on. Cycling through the different frequencies, she hesitated, then switched to Epsilon’s. Her A.I. companion had spent the last day and a half tearing through the Federal Army’s computer systems, streamlining processes and helping transfer over data from the New Republic. It had been strange not having Church’s snark buzzing away in the back of her head but, given the new developments this morning, probably for the better. He was already grossed out by the more leaky elements of base human biology. This probably would have pushed him over the edge.

 _“Good morning,”_ Church said moments after she swapped frequencies. He must have been keeping an eye out for her ID, Carolina realized with some amusement. _“Two days and you’re missing me already? That’s sad, Carolina. But understandable. It can’t be easy doing without my awesome presence.”_

“Oh shut up,” Carolina replied, rolling her eyes. “I need to talk to Doctor Grey, can you find her for me?”

 _“Why, are you hurt? Did something happen? Is everyone alright?”_ Church’s voice was instantly anxious. _“I didn’t see any reports about anything happening at the hotel.”_

“Everything’s fine. I just need to talk to Grey about something… personal.”

_“Personal? What the fuck does that mean?”_

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Carolina crossed her arms, tapping her foot in impatience. “Can you find her or what?”

Church let out derisive snort. _“Oh, I found her. She’s in surgery, a Federal Army unit ran into an unmarked minefield. I can see if she can step away if it’s urgent.”_

“No, it’s… damn.” Biting her lip, Carolina struggled to decide what to do now. She couldn’t pull Grey away and she really doubted she could bully any of the woman’s staff into dispensing medical implants without a check-up of some kind. Damn it. “Are there any medical clinics closer to the hotel?”

 _“There’s a few but they’re pretty basic. Run by nurse practitioners, good for treating colds and pink eye and shit.”_ A new note of concern filled Church’s voice. _“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t seek out doctors, like, ever.”_

“It’s a girl thing, Church,” Carolina replied in exasperation. She waited, head tilting to the side, for Church’s response. It shouldn’t take him long to put all the pieces together.

 _“A girl thing? Wh-- oh. Oooooh. Crap, okay, uh, hang on.”_ There was a brief pause. _“Yeah, you’re out of luck. The uh, implants I think you’re wanting are classified as medical technology and are_ **_only_ ** _at the hospital. Sorry. Uh, I can make an appointment for you? If you want?”_

“Yeah, go ahead. As soon as possible.”

 _“Okay, I can get you in-- huh, not until lunch time. I could bump somebody?”_ Church offered.

Unseen by the A.I., Carolina shook her head. “No, a few hours isn’t worth it. Put me down in the first available slot and send me the details. In the meantime, is Kimball in Armonia?”

_“No, she’s still out at the New Republic base overseeing the last transfer of supplies.”_

“Right.” A new message popped up on her HUD with the location of the doctor’s office and the time for her appointment. “I’ll find… someone. To get me the supplies I need in the meantime.”

_“I can see if I can find--”_

“You focus on the data transfer,” Carolina interrupted. “Bringing these armies together is the most important thing right now. This is annoying but manageable.”

 _“If you’re sure. Call me if you need_ **_anything_** _. I mean it, Carolina.”_

“I will. And thanks, Church.”

_“Yeah, no problem.”_

With a sigh, Carolina closed out the transmission. The dark hotel room suddenly felt small and confining. If she strained, she could just make out the soft sound of voices and footsteps coming from the floor above her but nothing distinct. Her makeshift pad was an unwelcome cushion in her underwear and now that she was paying attention, she realized she could feel the early twinge of cramps in her lower back and legs.

Drumming her fingers against her arm, an idea suddenly struck her. There was _no way_ she was letting _Church_ get her supplies to see her through the next few hours or days (depending on what the doctor said). The A.I. would inevitably go completely over the top and the last thing she needed was a pallet of menstrual supplies being delivered to her door. No, she needed a more … personal touch. And Blue Team _had_ just gotten a new girl.

She flicked through her saved frequencies and switched over to Blue Team.

 _“-ust saying,”_ Tucker was complained as she hopped in, _“Running fucking endless laps did jack and shit when we fought Felix and Locus!”_

 _“And I’m saying, Lavernius,”_ Wash snapped back, sounded like he was at wit’s end, _“that you don’t know the first goddamn thing about physical conditional so you‘re going to shut up and be ready to run when we get to the training field!”_

“If I can tear you two away from your flirting for a moment,” Carolina interrupted in a sweet voice, “I need to talk to Kaikaina.”

Tucker sputtered.

Wash sighed.

 _“Aw, I was hoping to hear the cop say it’s all an excuse to stare at Tucker’s ass. You interrupted them!”_ There was an audible pout in Sister’s voice.

_“That’s not-- It’s not-- I’m not doing that!”_

_“Tucker has an awesome ass, everyone should be looking at it!”_

_“Hell yeah, my ass is awesome!”_

Carolina bit back a laugh. She loved Wash’s screechy voice and Kaikaina was proving to be very good at getting it to come out. “Kaikaina, could you come to me room? I need to talk to you about something.”

 _“Ooh, someone’s in trouble,_ ” Tucker teased.

 _“Tucker did it,”_ Caboose declared. _“The curtains were on fire when I got here.”_

 _“Fi-- Caboose, I told you call me if you saw fire! Tucker, Caboose’s room,_ **_now_** _.”_ Wash groaned. _“I knew we should haven’t let him have his own room.”_

 _“So, do you still need me or should I help with the fire?”_ Kaikaina asked.

Someone sprinted past her room and started pounding on a door further down the hallways. “Ah, come on over,” Carolina said, then paused. “Wash? Let me know if we need to evacuate. I don’t think the fire alarms are working.”

A few minutes later (and after much shouting and screeching coming from down the hall), Kaikaina knocked on Carolina’s door, helmet tucked under her arm. Her dark eyes brightened when she saw that the Freelancer was still in her underwear.

“Is this a booty call?” she asked in an eager voice. “That’s hot. This is going to be _awesome_.”

“I-- no, this is not a booty call.” Blinking, Carolina shook her head briefly and stepped to the side so the younger woman could enter. “I need a favor. Woman to woman,” she began as she shut the door and tugged off her helmet.

“Oh, gotcha.” Kai dropped her helmet on the dresser, balled one hand into a fist and punched her other hand. “Who are we killing and do you have a plan yet to get rid of the body?”

“Kill-- not that kind of favor.” She stared at the other woman for a moment. “I need supplies.”

“Drug stuff? I don’t know any dealers here.” Cocking her head to the side, Kai’s expression turned thoughtful. “I think I know who to ask, though. One of Simmons’s girls has--”

“No, dear _god_ no,” Carolina interrupted before Sister took off to explore the seedy side of Chorus. “My bio implant expired and I won’t be able to get a new one until lunchtime. So I need-- stuff. So I can go out and do things and not bleed into my suit.”

“Oooh, Girl Stuff! Yeah, I have no idea where to find any.” Carolina let out muffled scream of frustration and started beating her head against the door with a dull _thud-thud-thud._  Kai bit her lip. “Um, Grif might know.”

Carolina’s head froze mid-bounce. She straightened and gave Kaikaina a blank look. “Why would you brother know where to get feminine hygiene supplies,” she demanded in a flat voice.

“Well, by now, he probably knows where to find a bunch of stuff. You know, convenience store type stuff? He’s good at that. And he knows all about Girl Stuff. He’s the one who taught me all about it. So, he could probably get some for you or tell me where to go.”

“Fine, call him. We can tell the whole goddamned planet,” Carolina snarled. The cramping was starting to intensify and she just. Wanted. To leave. Her room.

Kaikaina, meanwhile, picked her helmet back up and put it on, switching over to the Red Team frequency. Instantly, her helmet was filled with the sound of polka music. “Hey, Grif, I need to talk to you!” she hollered. He probably wasn’t up yet but someone on Red Team would get him up.

“Don’t actually tell everyone,” Carolina hissed, quickly donning her helmet again and switching frequencies. “There’s no way these idiots will be mature about this.”

Waving her hand in acknowledgement, Kai waited patiently for her brother to answer.

 _“What the fuck, Sister?”_ Grif finally groaned a few minutes later. _“Do you know what time it is?”_

 _“Way past time for you to be up!”_ Simmons snapped, sounding peeved.

“You guys are as lame as Blue Team this morning.” With a sigh, Kaikaina suddenly switched languages, leaving everyone listening to pause and blink in confusion. The siblings had a brief back and forth before Kai nodded happily and turned off her comm.

“What language was that?” Carolina asked in surprise as they both took off their helmets.

“Hawaiian,” Kai replied in a cheery tone. “The Red Team guys can go on and on for _ever_ if you let them. Anyways, Grif did see some stuff when he was hunting down snack cakes yesterday. I can go get some, if you like. He didn’t pay a super amount of attention, though, so I don’t know what kind of stuff they’ll have. Any preferences?”

“Um, tampons? If they have any?” Was it really going to suddenly be this easy?

“Cool. You go take, like, a bath or something. You look super tense. I’ll be back in a jiffy! Girl power!” Flashing her one final bright smile, Kai slid her helmet back onto her head.

Letting the young woman out after passing her the spare room key, Carolina leaned against the closed door. She needed to call Church again and reschedule her morning meeting with Doyle. But after that…

A small smile crept over Carolina’s face. A bath did sound nice and the underground reservoir beneath Armonia meant water wasn’t being rationed (yet). And it wouldn’t take much fiddling to broadcast both the Red and Blue Team channels without sending anything out over the comms herself. So far, both teams sounded quite active and up to their usual malarkey. It would certainly keep her entertained until Kaikaina got back. With a soft sigh and a quickly stretch, Carolina nodded in satisfaction. That would do. That would do nicely.


	3. Everything is Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my banked Last Call oneshots so it could be a little while before the next one. Thanks for reading!

He’s warm, almost hot. As awareness slowly drifts into Wash’s mind, that’s the first thing he notices. Cool air is blowing gently against his face but the rest of him is enveloped in an almost overwhelming amount of heat.

There’s a faint tingle in his fingers and toes, a slightly cramped feeling in his limbs. When he goes to stretch, Wash discovers that he’s pinned. An idle thought rolls gently through his mind, wondering if perhaps he should figure out why? A second thought responds:  _ Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep. _ Relaxing back into the almost overwhelming warmth, Wash lets himself drift once more.

“Let me make you a muffin,” a voice mumbles, half slurring the words.

Wash… pauses, shifting his attention from recapturing the comfortable dream he’d been having before waking up. The words had been mumbled into his stomach, the vibration tickling his skin through the worn fabric of his shirt. There’s a head burrowed against him, a hint of drool dampened fabric sticking to his gut and cooling in time with a puff of steady breathing.

_ What now? _ Wash sighs to himself.

Instead of reaching for sleep once more, Wash nudges himself awake, finally starting pick up on what exactly was going on.

There’s someone draped against his back, pressed against him from shoulder to hip while knees knock against the back of his legs. A long arm is draped across his waist but not wrapped around him. No, the arm wrapped around his hips is coming from on the other side of him and probably belongs to whoever is using his stomach as a pillow. A broad chest rises and falls against his legs and his feet are tucked securely against a soft stomach.

Wash feels his face flushing as a wave of embarrassment rolls through him. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on now. Sheepishly, he opens his eyes.

The room Wash had moved into after the New Republic moved to Armonia is faintly illuminated by the soft, barely there glow of Tucker’s Sangheili tattoos, a complex array of lines, circles, loops, and alien characters that decorate most of his back. Whatever ink the aliens used is bioluminescent and the light that emanates from the patterns increases and decreases with the Blue soldier’s emotions, fading to a faint shimmer when asleep.  He really hopes Tucker is at last wearing pants. Or underwear.  _ ( _ ~~_ Although, buff Tucker is nice. _ ~~ _ ) _

Angling his head down, Wash confirms that the body pressed against his stomach and legs is Caboose and that the gigantic man-child is clutching him like a teddy bear while he drools and dreams of baked goods. The bed they’re in isn’t that long, which means Caboose is either half falling off the end or curled into the most awkward position ever around Wash’s legs.

The final body in the bed belongs to the person he’s still struggling to understand, still trying to process what to do with.

He  _ knows _ he’s had a bad few days. The rising tension between the two Chorus factions have been stressing him to the point where the lines he’s drawn between himself and Epsilon/Alpha/Director have blurred and everything that isn’t  _ him _ has been bleeding through.

This isn’t the first time Tucker and/or Caboose have crawled into bed with him to help ground him in himself and hold back the nightmares as the memories war inside his mind. It’s startling, though, to discover that Sister cared enough to join them.

Kaikaina Grif is lying on her side facing him, fast asleep with dark brown hair spread loosely across her broad shoulders, the pillow, and Wash’s arm as it vanishes under the fluffy cushion. Their fingers are tangled loosely together under the pillow. Sister’s other arm is draped across his waist right above Tucker’s and her elbow rests in Caboose’s dense curls.

A note of panic hits Wash. If Grif  _ ever _ found out about this…

_ (Grif was protective of his sister to the point of violence. He growled and groused as she flounced her way through training and flirted with anyone who paid her the slightest bit of attention. There had been a few Chorus soldiers who’d been interested in getting to know her better only to abruptly change their mind when Grif fixed his wrath on them, lashing out like an angry tiger protecting its babies from a deadly predator. Sister didn’t appreciate his intervention and the screaming matches that followed each escapade made it clear to everyone within half a mile exactly where each of the siblings stood on the matter. Wash had briefly pondered if he could somehow leverage this to get Grif to train more but hastily discarded the idea when Kaikaina’s latest set of suitors were found tied up in the explosives storage locker. Sure, he wanted Grif to workout more but he wasn’t actually suicidal, no matter what Tucker said.) _

Wash is debating whether to prod Sister or Tucker awake when he heard the faint sound of a toilet flushing, then the brief rush of running water. The light switch in the small bathroom attached to his quarters clicks off and the door opens. Closing his eyes, Wash listened as quiet feet pad across the carpet. The blankets twitch suddenly as they’re tugged and adjusted to better cover the sleeping pile.

Opening his eyes just enough to peek through the lids, Wash spots the red blur of Carolina’s hair as she paces around the bed. Then, a moment after disappearing from view, the mattress shifts. Behind him, Tucker grumbles softly in his sleep and shifts his weight. There’s a sound of feet sliding against the bed and then Carolina’s hand reaches out to rest on his leg, squeezing his calf for a moment as she settles back down to sleep. The soft rush of air as she breathes tickle the hair on his ankles as she settles against Tucker, far enough down on the bed to easily reach Wash while using Caboose’s leg as a pillow.  

Wash feels the heat on his face spread down his neck and chest, updating his mental picture of the bed to add Carolina, upside-down and probably resting her knees in Tucker’s back to maintain a little bit of distance between them.

Wash isn’t used to this kind of obvious care, not anymore. One of the few things all the sets of memories in his head agree on is that people will leave once you’re used up, unconcerned or actively relishing the pain and damage left in their wake.

The degree to which Wash has come to love his new team is shocking and the part of him that remembers being broken and left behind and cast away is curled up in a frightened ball in his mind, waiting for his new team to give him the boot. Loving his Blues and protecting them, the ball whimpers, is just going to make it  _ worse _ when they’re done with him.

Days like the ones he’s been having make him want to bury himself in that ball of fear, to protect himself from the pain that’s sure to come.

Before he could fold in on himself, though, Tucker had been at his door holding a sniveling Caboose by the arm and complaining that Wash’s brooding was keep them all up. At some point after he’d been coaxed to sleep by Tucker’s stories about hitting on girls in bars and Caboose rambling about living on the moon, Kaikaina and Carolina must have arrived and joined the cuddle pile.

Wash lets himself fall back into the heat of his team wrapped around him. If Carolina’s going back to sleep, it’s hours before dawn. And he’s so comfortable… As he drifts back to sleep, the ball of fear loosens. Perhaps this time, he muses with sleepy, sluggish thoughts, he has a team that will stay with him no matter what.


	4. Just a Quick Check-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn’t like physicals? Cold tables, endless forms, and a moment of unexpected bonding between Kaikaina and North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a 7 tab one-shot -- 7 tabs of Wikipedia and other resources while hunting for medical information and details about military MEPS physicals.

“This is stupid boring,” Kaikaina sighed, swinging her bare feet back and forth and back and forth as she sat and waited to be called for her physical. The thin cotton gown-robe-thing she’d been given stretched tight over her generous chest and dug into one of her armpits. She’d only been wearing it for half an hour and already hated it.

The only man in the waiting room not praying for her robe to tear laughed softly besides her. “I am getting flashbacks to my MEPS physical,” North agreed. “At least the Federal Army doesn’t require as much paperwork.”

“I didn’t have to take off my toenail polish” Kaikaina swung her legs up and held them there, taking a moment to admire the green polish. (She knew it was green, Donut had told her the color he was using. More importantly, though, it had _sparkles_.) “That would have sucked. I like having pretty toes.”

A nurse appeared at the doorway and called out an unfamiliar name, waiting as one of the other soldiers stood up and hurried to her. Moments later, they disappeared from view.

Now that the New Republic had moved into Armonia and the personnel lists merged, the New Republic medical staff were scooping up every soldier who didn’t have a medical file and running them through a full physical. And that sweep included the recently arrived Corporal Kaikaina Grif and Agent North Dakota.

Letting her legs drop, Kaikaina sighed, wracking her brain for what to say next. The guy beside her, all eleven hundred feet of him (he was taller than _Caboose_ , which was _insane_ ), had stuck beside her as much as possible during the early stages of the physical. It was sweet and she had a feeling her brother had something to do with that, the overprotective dork. It was weird, knowing Dexter trusted someone else to keep an eye on her (not that she needed it). All their life, it’s been the two of them versus the world. But Dex trusted North. He’d pulled him into their circle of two and didn’t seem inclined to let him go.

Tucker thought it was weird. Kaikaina trusted Tucker. He was funny, good at sex (he’d only needed a _little_ bit of training), and had learned to kick ass since leaving Blood Gulch. He though North was weird and that it was weird Dexter was dating him.

The idea of Dexter dating _any_ guy was strange. He’d never gone out with a dude before that she knew of. Sure, she’d noticed the awkward tension between him and Simmons back in Blood Gulch. She’d figured Dexter would eventually pull his head out of his ass and realize the nerd had a serious crush on him and would totally be up for boning. And then they’d have sex and be all mushy about each other.

North wasn’t Simmons. Kai was pretty sure he was a nerd (but, like, a _cool nerd_ who’d help you cheat at poker and steal movies from the Internet) but he was also really chill. He didn’t argue with Dexter all the time or talk down to him like Simmons did sometimes. She liked that. Dexter didn’t think he was smart even though he totally was and North also seemed to think Dexter was smart. The more she saw him and Dex together and the more she watched him do stuff and heard him talk, them more she liked him. In additional to just being a nice guy, North made Dexter _laugh_. Not “making fun of people” laugh or “pretend to laugh to keep her from being scared” laugh. _Really_ laugh, with jokes and comments.

She liked hearing Dexter laugh. He’d always been super grumpy and stressed when they were growing up. Laughing was good. Laughing meant he wasn’t sad or worried about finding enough food so they could both eat or angry and wanting to hit someone. Dexter laughing meant they were _safe_. North made him feel safe.

“So how much younger than Grif are you?”

“Huh?” Kai stared wide-eyed up at the tall blond, startled out of her thoughts.

“Sorry.” North gave her a small smile. He had a good face for smiling even if it was tired and stuble-y and had little clues that he drank too much. “I just realized that I didn’t know what the age difference between you and your brother is.”

“Oh. I’m three years younger than Grif,” Kaikaina answered. North’s face scrunched up slightly at her answer.

“He talks about you a lot,” he said. “He’s always worried about you, what you’re doing, who might be with you. He made you sound a lot younger than you are.”

Frowning, Kai studied North’s face. “He’s always done that,” she replied. “Worried about me and stuff.”

“Sounds like he’s been watching out for you a long time.”

“For as long as I can remember.” There-- North’s expression changed again. He almost looked angry-- but also sad? It was _weird_. “I mean, no one else wanted to so he did. He did a good job,” she added, suddenly uneasy.

“I can see that,” North agreed. “I just--” he paused and Kai wanted to hit him, to shake him and make him tell her what he was thinking because his face was just that stupid mix of different emotions and she didn’t _get it_ , she _never could_ when there was this much going on. “Who took care of him?”

“I did!” Kai snapped, bristling. “We took care of each other!”

North’s eyes went wide and he raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” he said quickly. “My sister and I used to look out for each other too. I’m glad you and Grif did the same.” As Kaikaina’s rage subsided somewhat, he dropped his hands to his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything or make you mad.”

Kaikaina studied him suspiciously for a minute, looking some kind of sign he was lying. “Fine,” she finally grudgingly replied. “Just don’t do it again. No one wanted us so we looked after each other. End of story.”

“Got it.” North looked solemn now as he nodded.

“Kaikaina Grif?” a nurse suddenly called out.

With a final, lingering look, Kaikaina stood and marched away. Maybe North wasn’t as cool as she thought he was.

 

* * *

 

As North ran through the reflex and movement test, he counted down the minutes until he was done. In the hours since Grif’s sister had been called back, North had passed through his own physical exam, hearing and vision tests, and spent some time talking with a nurse about some of his responses in the mental health screening.

_(The nurse had been very calm and frank while telling him they had a few counselors still available who could help him with his alcoholism and the trauma caused by Project Freelancer. She’d given him a pamphlet about addiction and taught him some basic meditation and calming exercises, all the while emphasizing that these techniques were no substitute to speaking with an actual trained mental health practitioner. The discussion had felt like a punch to the gut. He made sure to hang on to the pamphlet.)_

“Agent North Dakota?”

Pausing mid-squat, North straightened to face the hospital orderly who’d interrupted him. “Just North is fine,” he told the man, who hesitated, visibly conflicted.

“Oh. Er, Nor- Agent North? Dr. Grey asked to see you.”

“Is something wrong?” North asked in concern. He ran through the day’s different exams, worried which one could have raised a red flag.

“Oh, no, it’s concerning another patient. Um, if you could come with me, I can take you to her.”

“Don’t worry about the rest of this test,” his examiner added. Shaking her head, she gave him an amused look. “I don’t care what you said before you got started. You’re in better shape than anyone in either the Federal Army or the New Republic and I’m not seeing any signs of significant musculoskeletal, reflexive, or neurological issues. I’ll pass your paperwork along to the administrative staff. Check in with them once you’ve seen Dr. Grey but you should be all done.”

“Well, alright then. Thanks for this,” North replied, giving the woman a short nod. To the orderly, he said, “Lead on, then.”

The orderly led North out of the physical therapy room and through a series of hallways, then up several floors of the hospital. They came to a stop outside a reinforced steel door with a battered nameplate reading _Dr. Emily Grey_.

“You can go right in,” the orderly told North, then hurried away.

“Thank you,” North called after him. Turning back to the door, North took a deep breath and reached out and opened the door.

The office inside was gleamed and didn’t have a single spec of dust in sight. The back wall was lined with bookshelves groaning and sagging under the weight of textbooks, computer drives, and a bizarre mix of personal items and cybernetic parts. In front of the shelves sat a metal desk large and clean enough to perform surgery on and the faintly antiseptic smell suddenly made North wonder if Dr. Grey _had_ used her office as a makeshift operating room.

The doctor herself, he assumed, was the older looking woman seated behind the desk. Her ocher skin was lined with laugh lines and her dark eyes had small creases at the corners. A few wisps of coiled silvery hair had escaped the neat bun on top of her head and elegantly framed her pixie-like face.

“Agent North Dakota!” the doctor exclaimed when she spotted him. A flash of excitement appeared in her eyes and she clapped her hands. “I was _so hoping_ we’d have a chance to talk. I can’t believe there are _three_ Freelancers in Armonia now. The research possibilities are just so _exciting!_ But I’m getting ahead of myself. Ms. Grif and I were having a _little chat_ about some of her test results and she asked if you could join us since her brother is unavailable. So please, sit!”

Kaikaina, clad in a similar pair of sweats and a simple t-shirt to North’s, was curled in on herself as she sat on the end of the small couch facing the desk. She glanced over, chewing nervously on her lower lip as she sat huddled with her knees tucked against her chest.

North blinked. “Sure,” he replied after a moment. Stepping into the office, he pulled the door shut and hurried over to the couch, sinking down into the cushiony surface. “You okay?” he asked softly, leaning towards Kaikaina.

Grif’s sister nodded. “Yeah, it’s just-- um, I know Grif will want to know this stuff but it doesn’t-- I don’t think I’ll remember everything so I was hoping you could. Help.” She tugged nervously at a loose thread on the couch.

“Yeah, I can do that,” North reassured her. “So what going on?” he asked, turning back to the doctor.

“Well, I don’t think we need to repeat our little discussion about drugs and safer sex practices,” Dr. Grey began _(Kaikaina made a soft gagging noise)_. “I primarily wanted to discuss Ms. Grif’s brain damage.”

North sucked in a sharp breath “Brain damage?” he repeated. Without thinking, he reached out and took Kaikaina’s hand. She immediately threaded her fingers through his, clutching tight.

“Oh yes. When Ms. Grif failed the test for color blindness, the nurse had her provide us a cheek swab so the lab could run a basic genetic panel. Color blindness is _extremely rare_ in females so it’s always good to look for other possible issues. In this instance, however, the panel didn’t indicate any genetic abnormalities that could cause color blindness so they brought her case to my attention.

“Naturally, I asked if she would be willing to undergo a thorough brain scan. And that revealed a number of bilateral lesions in the ventral occipital cortex and cerebral achromatopsia.” Grey stopped, looking quickly from North to Kai and back again. She sighed when she was met with identical blank looks and continued. “Ms. Grif’s eyes work just fine. Her brain, however, can’t process any information about color due to the damage to her cerebral cortex, most likely from abusive head trauma inflicted at a young age, or _Shaken Baby Syndrome_ as it’s more popularly known.

“At the time of injury, she would likely have suffered retinal bleeds; possible multiple fractures of the long bones, vertebrae, and ribs; and subdural hematomas. Abusive head trauma can also lead to a number of long-term health issues, assuming the victim lives. This can include varying degrees of visual impairment, motor impairment, and cognitive impairments. There’s also increased irritability, failure to thrive, lethargy, vomiting, seizures, depression, and so on.”

“You mean I’m going to end up a drooling empty shell,” Kaikaina whimpered, burying her face in her knees. Her hand clutched North’s desperately. “That’s what you see on TV when a character get brain damage. They end up all alone and broken in the hospital and then they die.”

“Oh, no, no, no. Goodness, no,” Grey exclaimed. Her eyes went wide as she set aside her more boisterous mannerisms in the face of the young woman’s obvious fear. “No, Ms. Grif, you are not going to end up a ‘drooling empty shell’.”

North slid across the couch, breaking their handhold so he could wrap a comforting arm around her. Kaikaina grabbed his hand again and pressed close once he was settled. “You mean the damage isn’t getting worse, right?” he asked, giving Kaikaina a reassuring squeeze.

“Yes, that’s exactly right, Agent North,” replied Dr. Grey. She leaned forward over her desk. “Ms. Grif, I’m not telling you all this to frighten you. Knowing what’s going on in your brain means we will be better prepared to treat you if you get injured. It also helps explain things that may have puzzled you about your own life. For example, this type of damage can cause learning difficulties and problems with emotional processing and general executive functioning.”

Kaikaina took a few moments to puzzle over Grey’s words. “You mean--” she paused, then cautiously peeked up, eyes big and vulnerable as she peered over her knees at the doctor. “You mean getting hit as a kid made me stupid? I’m not-- I wasn’t born this way?” Her voice was soft and tight.

Grey took a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose you could put it that way. Ms. Grif, Kaikaina, I don’t think you’re stupid. I believe you have had artificial limitations forced on you. You are, well, _diminished_ somewhat intellectually than you would have been without this damage. But this doesn’t mean you can’t live a fulfilling, independent life. You may never go on to college but that’s not necessarily a path you would have traveled no matter what had happened in your life.”

North squeezed Kaikaina’s hand. “Everything you were when you got up this morning, everything you were going to do with your life-- none of that has changed,” he said, jumping into the conversation. “I don’t think any less of you and I know Grif won’t either.”

Leaning against North, Kaikaina soaked up the comfort of his words and presence. Biting her lip, she silently took back the angry things she’d been thinking about him since earlier. When the doctor had started using all those long medical words, Kaikaina had asked if Grif could come and talk to her. And when Grif wasn’t available, she asked for his boyfriend so he could write down all the stupid doctor terms to tell Grif later. She hadn’t thought he’d want to try and make her feel better.

“Can you fix me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“Ah, no,” Grey replied regretfully. “Certainly not with the diminished resources available to us. The brain is still very challenging to work with, so I couldn’t make any promises, not even if I did have access to the very latest medical research.”

“You don’t _need_ fixing,” North added. “You wouldn’t be _you_. Grif loves you just the way you are and I’m pretty charmed by you myself.”

With a soft sigh, Kaikaina rested her head against North’s chin, faintly amused by the feel of his stubble scratching her scalp. “Okay. What now?”

Grey smiled at the sweet picture the two soldiers made. “There are a few more points I’d like to discuss but I promise we’ve gotten the big one out of the way.”

As promised, the discussion flew quickly and it wasn’t long before Kaikaina and North were finally released from the hospital.

“Lunch!” Kaikaina crowed as they tugged their helmets on and strolled out of the hospital.

“It’s definitely been awhile since breakfast,” North agreed. “I think we should get there just in time to meet up with the others for a little while.”

“Heh, and then Washington goes back to torturing the Chorus soldiers?” Kai guessed.

North laughed. “He’s always had a knack for getting regular soldiers to listen to him. He’s enjoying himself more than he’ll admit.”

“Cool.”

They walked along the sidewalk for several minutes, nodding (North) and waving (Kaikaina) at the soldiers and personnel that passed by. Kai kept up a running commentary on the different soldiers, pointing out North’s New Republic fans, the Federal Army soldiers who’d heard of them, and the soldiers from both armies who were utterly dismissive of the colorful off-worlders. North grinned in amusement at the constant chatter, really hearing for the first time just how similar the Grif siblings were. Whatever extra challenges Kaikaina was facing, she had the same keen insight her brother had.

“Hey, North?” Kaikaina said, her voice suddenly shy as they approached the mess hall. “I just wanted to say thanks. For helping with Dr. Grey. That was super cool of you.”

“I was happy to,” North replied, gesturing for her to precede him. “We’re family.”


	5. David

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some mornings Blue Leader wakes up and … isn't Wash.

Tucker’s willing to forgive Project Freelancer for a lot of things. Because of the program, he’d avoided dying on some random battlefield on an unfamiliar planet; he’d come to possess a kick-ass, one of a kind sword; hell, he even had a son he loved more than anyone or anything else in the galaxy.

On mornings like this, though, Tucker wishes he could resurrect the Director so he could have his own turn at killing him. Slowly. Painfully.

Mornings like this one are getting more and more rare, thank Christ.

Mornings like today, Wash doesn't start hassling him or Caboose or Sister over the radio. He doesn't show up for breakfast or training.

There are some mornings Blue Leader wakes up and … isn't Wash.

It had been early in their stopover Outpost Rockslide the first time Wash woke up as the Director. A mangled Southern accent has greeted Tucker and Caboose at breakfast, calling them _Agents_ through a mouth not shaped for that slow drawl. Instead of standing hunched in on himself near the coffee pot, back to the wall, the Director sat at the rickety table with his shoulders back and a sneer on his face. He brushed Caboose off as a pest and tried to interrogate Tucker about the status of the imaginary experiment he thought he was overseeing.

That morning had sucked. All the ones where the Director showed up did. He was a jerk, a bully, and didn’t care what happened to anyone around him as long as he got the data he wanted.

Alpha was different. Alpha was all fear and a stuttering voice, babbling that he would figure it out, just let him try again, just _one more time_ _please please please._ He could _save them._ Alpha muttering under his breath as he struggled to run test after test after test in his head, counting each iteration into the tens and hundreds until he collapsed from exhaustion.

By contrast, Epsilon only appeared at night, heralded by screaming and horrific nightmares. Epsilon crawled under the bed or into a corner, shaking and terrified. _Please no, no more,_ Epsilon whimpered. _I don't want to remember, please, make it all go away._ Then he’d latch on to whoever had the job of pulling him out of hiding (Tucker. It was always Tucker), fingers clenching like iron as he suddenly screamed _Help me! You have to help me stop them, save him!_   _You have to! I’ll make you! Help me or I’ll kill you!_

After a horrendous, confusing and frightening week, Tucker confronted Washington and demanded answers why someone _besides_ Wash had greeted him and Caboose in the morning or woken them up at night. Tucker wanted _answers_.

The conversation had been long and painful and Wash disappeared for the rest of the day once it was done.

It wasn't until they crashed in Chorus that Tucker realized the Director, Alpha, and Epsilon weren't the only memories jockeying for primacy Wash’s head.

Mornings like this one, Wash didn't show up to start the day like he should. There was no sarcasm or crying or threats. Instead, there was silence and a broken, empty man sitting and staring vacantly at nothing or wandering around lost and disoriented in a hazy fugue.

Some mornings, it was _David_ who opened his eyes and crawled out of bed.

David had survived Project Freelancer when no one, including Wash, thought he had. David was the shattered remnants of the young man who’d been coerced into the experimental program. Washington might remembered the bitter, frightening, _painful_ hours trapped injured on a crashed ship with no one coming to rescue him but it was David who collapsed under the weight of that memory and all the others.

Dissociation wasn’t a completely unfamiliar concept but Tucker had never seen it play out so dramatically before.

For his own sanity, Tucker preferred the days where David huddled on his bed, not feeling like either his body or the world around him was real. He was lost, confused, and didn’t know who or where he was. Occasionally, David hurt himself without realizing it, tripping over something left in his path if he tried to move or walked into a wall he didn’t think existed.

The fugue states, however, _terrified_ Tucker. Usually in a state of dissociative amnesia, David would wander, walking mindlessly through the base or outside. He never remembered wandering and couldn’t explain where he’d been going. He just-- moved.

After their ship had crashed, Tucker was constantly on edge whenever Wash started to get overwhelmed by stress and worry, the most reliable triggers he’d been able to identify for one of the other memories taking over when Wash just couldn’t handle it anymore. He could deal with the Director, reassure Alpha, and pacify Epsilon. David, though, he worried would wander off into the wilderness around them and fall off a cliff, get attacked by a wild animal, or simply get lost.

Months later, the Reds and Blues settled in a new routine of training, inventory, meals, debating tactics, and having actual, real down time in the busy streets of Armonia. Washington stuck to the training field, determinedly taking on the task of training two entire armies in basic combat and military tactics. Carolina, North, and the others helped as best they could (and as much as they could be coerced) and it wasn’t long before they could tell Wash was actually enjoying himself.

With new purpose and the comfort of a regular schedule, the Director, Alpha, and Epsilon mostly stayed tucked in the back of Wash’s head, appearing only every now and then instead of almost weekly.

There was no escaping the stress of struggling to build camaraderie between the two factions or trying to manage the fights between Kimball and Doyle, though. There’s constant worry about food and ammunition and medical supplies all on top of the usual drama the Reds and Blues can’t help but engage in.

When Wash starts to get tense around the eyes and tight around his mouth at mealtimes, Tucker starts keeping an eye on him, wary of the signs that Wash is heading for a meltdown. He listens for Wash’s screech voice of frustration (it’s absence is cause for worry), watches to see if he starts hunching his shoulders or lingering next to walls or corners, and worries about how much sleep Wash is actually getting.

Tucker and Caboose had discovered by accident back in Rockslide that Wash is completely touch-starved. Depending on where his head is at, brushing against his arm or giving him a casual hug will either cause him to melt into the touch or lock up in overwhelmed fright.

On top of that, they had to contend with the Director (who hated being touched), Alpha (always wanting to crawl into your lap and cry, and Epsilon (eternally seesawing back and forth between craving comfort and lashing out in rage). David, though, didn’t even seem to notice touch at first. Gradually, though, he’d press his cheek against a comforting hand or huddle into to a warm embrace. Over time, the touch grounds him back in himself and David relaxes and becomes Wash again.

Sometimes when Wash is getting stressed and worn-out, one or both of the other Blues will tug him onto the couch for a movie or just to sit and chat, leaning against his shoulder while letting their physical presence provide comfort mere words aren’t able to provide. The worst nights, when Wash starts to withdraw into himself and forgets to eat, they climb into bed with him, hoping to allay his suffering or at least make sure someone is there if it isn’t Washington who wakes up the next morning.

This morning, when Washington doesn’t get on the radio to herd his team into their armor and doesn’t appear at breakfast, Tucker grimaces and tells Sarge to take over morning drills and sends a message to Sister to meet them in Wash’s room. Then, with Caboose in tow, they go back to the hotel they’re now calling home to find their friend.

When Tucker keys open the door, it’s David sitting confused on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest as he stares vacantly at the battered dresser against the far wall. The dull light in his eyes and numbness in his limbs causes white-hot anger to explode in Tucker’s head. He _hates_ seeing Wash like this, _hates_ that Project Freelancer hurt him _so much_ that sometimes the only way Washington can escape the pain in his own head sometimes is to push _everything_ but the most basic sensory input away.

Pushing the rage at the Director and Project Freelancer aside, Tucker settles down next to David and reaches out to gingerly rest a hand on his arm. Caboose clucks disapprovingly and grabs the throw blanket he’d found somewhere for Wash and wraps it around his shoulders. David doesn’t react right away but he blinks a little faster, a little harder. Something in his face twitches and Tucker knows on some level he’s noticed their presence.

Normally, it would take several hours for Wash to come back to himself but so far Sister is proving to be an excellent catalyst in grounding Wash. It’s impossible to ignore her and Wash really doesn’t have _any_ association with her besides their time together on Chorus. When she sits with him each time it isn’t Wash driving his body, chatting about whatever inane topic comes to mind, Washington snaps back into control faster and easier than before.

While they sit and wait, David suddenly sighs and slumps against Tucker’s shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the worn fabric of his shirt. It takes a moment of awkward wiggling but Tucker manages to free his suddenly pinned arm and wraps it around the Freelancer’s shoulders. Caboose, more cautious and careful than he is at any other time, settles against David’s other side, yawning sleepily like he hadn’t just gotten up for breakfast. When Sister arrives, she’ll sit in front of Wash where he can see her and hold his hands, grinning and chatting a mile a minute about sex or the club she’d started in Blood Gulch or whatever her latest fight with Grif was about.

Eventually, David will go away and they’ll have Washington back. He’ll turn red and try to get them to _go away_ so he can be confused and embarrassed in peace. He won’t remember the time he’d spent empty and lost but that’s alright. Because even if he’s losing minutes or hours out of the day, he knows his team is there and that they kept him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had to start a new document just to keep track of the different mental health issues these poor babies are dealing with.


	6. Night Are Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nights can be hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be small edits later tonight, just grammar and word stuff. I'm literally racing out the door after a long day's work.

“Falling back into old habits?”

North started, head whipping around at the unexpected sound of Wash’s voice. The dim lights that ran through the dilapidated hotel hallway emphasized the harsh lines of the other Freelancer’s face. The peeling wallpaper and torn carpet surrounding them seemed strangely fitting for the unexpected late night encounter.

Relaxing slightly, North offered Wash a rueful nod in greeting. “I guess you could say that,” he replied softly. “Nights are-- they can be hard. I guess I got used to drinking myself to sleep,” he explained, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, fingers skimming past the implants. “Now that I’m trying to avoid … that … insomnia’s been kicking in hard for a while now.”

“I know the feeling,” Wash admitted, fidgeting slightly in place. He looked smaller and more vulnerable in just a soft shirt, loose cloth pants, and sock-clad feet.  

The silence that fell between them was awkward, the air unsettled. The easy comfort of random encounters they’d known on the Mother of Invention had been wiped away by the lingering pain of South’s death at Wash’s hands.

Intellectually, North knew why Wash had shot her. He understood how the program had tortured his sister, warping her until she broke, until she couldn’t see any way to survive without relying solely on herself.

Knowing didn’t make her absence better or ease the pain of never seeing her again. North loved her even after everything that had happened and that would never change. (It did help that Grif understood what it meant to have undying love for your sibling, no matter what they did. As in so many things, Grif was a solid, steadfast anchor helping him through the painful process of confronting the issues he’d drowned in alcohol for so many years.)

“So what has you up and about at this hour?” North asked as the silence crept on.

With a soft sigh, Wash folded his arms across his chest, shoulders rounding in discomfort. “Worry, mostly,” he admitted. “I know Tucker and Caboose are with Carolina but… not being there to protect them if the mission goes wrong…” his voice trailed off.

“It’s the stuff nightmares are made from,” North agreed. He hesitated, then half-turned, angling his head towards the end of the hall. “Someone dragged some couches into one of the old ballrooms,” he said in a tentative voice. “Got a decent view of the city.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve--” swallowing, Wash straightened and nodded slightly. “It’s a good place to spend the night,” he agreed.

After another few moments of hesitation, the two men started the short trek down the wide hallway. The floor they were on was both taller and more ominous than the ones that led to their individual rooms. Shadows clung to the corners and high ceilings as they passed by broken doors and storage closets long since raided for their contents. Two of the ballrooms in the formerly luxurious hotel were scarred by fire and combat, the walls coated with soot and riddled with bullet holes.

On the far end of the hall, however, was a single, mostly undisturbed room, large enough for a decent sized party or meeting during more peaceful times. Inside, a short stack of chairs leaned precariously against the far wall next to a few folded up plastic tables. And sitting in front of the lone unboarded window, were two couches arranged in a ‘V’.

“So when did you find this space?” Wash asked he collapsed onto one of the couches, feet pointing towards the window as he stretched out across the cushions.

“After the first mission Red Team went on,” North replied dropping onto the other couch. Swinging his legs up onto the couch, he leaned against the worn throw pillow resting on the armrest and propped his hands behind his head. “It’s been harder than I expected returning to combat like this. Once I realized I wasn’t going to be getting any sleep, I went exploring. You?”

“First night here. I don’t like sleeping somewhere without knowing what’s around me.” Tipping his head back and to the side, Wash looked over at North. “I’m surprised you went wandering. Don’t you Reds have some weird post-battle ritual you do in the armory’s shitty back office?”

North let out a bark of laughter. “I guess you could say that,” he replied in amusement. “It’s more about having a space to wind down, a way to remind ourselves that we all made it out. And if someone got hurt, well, it helps with that too. Blue Team doesn’t do that?”

“No, Blue Team just mopes or spazzes out depending on the situation.” Wash let his head tip forward again, drinking in the view. There were no visible lights in Armonia at night. Nothing that could give away where they posted troops or placed artillery to guard them in the dark of the night. The stars glowed bright overhead and it was just possible to make out the outline of the city’s many skyscrapers. Without the chatter of nervous, frighteningly young soldiers or the rattle of gunfire and heavy machinery, the city felt peaceful, like a place to rest and find comfort. And in that quiet, with North nearby if something happened, the frantic buzz of worry and stress that had been swamping Wash’s mind started to settle down.

“I’m not sure I can picture Carolina moping or spazzing out,” North mused. His voice had a deeper, more languid quality to it compared to earlier in the hallway. It seemed Wash wasn’t the only one starting to relax.

“Mm, she hasn’t fully committed to the Blues,” Wash explained. “She’s done a decent job of keeping above a lot of the drama.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t pushed her on it, _Blue Leader_ ,” North chuckled. “You can insult the Reds all you want but I refuse to believe you Blues don’t have a hazing process.”

Wash laughed. “Please, Blue Team isn’t nearly organized enough for a formal hazing process. Insane rules lawyering is a strictly Red quality.” He grinned as North’s snickers echoed through the room. “We’ve both fully assimilated, haven’t we?” he asked ruefully.

“Completely,” North agreed. “But I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

“No, it’s really not.”

Assimilation meant constant teasing and sass from Tucker, rib cracking hugs from Caboose, and Kaikaina leaning in to tell wild stories that strained all credulity. It was hearing polka music blaring from the Reds’ Warthog and Sarge’s bombastic shouts as he ran drills. Grif and Simmons bickering and bantering meant everything was okay and he’d come to expect Donut to insist on a “wine and cheese and gossip hour” in his room after every mission. Even Carolina and North were sliding back into place as more than just co-workers as they integrated deeper in with the simulation troopers. Assimilation, Wash knew, meant having friends and family who watched his back while he watched theirs both on and off the battlefield. And if he woke up and discovered he’d lost hours out of the day, he always found someone there with him keeping him safe.

Rolling onto his side and pillowing his head on an arm, Wash glanced over at North. “I still think you should take over from Sarge,” he said with a small yawn. “There’s a lot of untapped potential with them.”

North shook his head, a small smile crossing his face. “No, it’s better this way.” He sighed softly for a moment, pointing and stretching his toes and feet as his heels rested on the armrest on the far end of the couch. “Even back during the Project, I was never really cut out for command. The few missions I had lead on usually ended in chaos. And now…” his voice drifted off for a moment. “I’m not at the same level I was then. I’m getting back there but I’m not like you or Carolina. I haven’t been fighting to survive this whole time.

“Sarge isn’t above suggestion is you approach it the right way. And the Reds have a good handle on when he’s pushing a crazy plan and how to shut it down.” Taking a moment to scoot further down the couch, North folded his arms across his chest once his head was flat on the cushions and his legs dangling off the end. “He’s better at making sure everyone gets off the battlefield alive than I ever was. And to be completely honest, his mad shouting is the only thing that keeps me moving forward during some fights.”

“That’s fair,” Wash murmured in response. Distantly, he realized his eyes had drifted closed while the other man was speaking and forced them back open. “North, don’t sell yourself short. You may not have been in combat the past few years but just surviving after everything that happened? That’s an accomplishment. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks,” North finally replied. It meant a lot, knowing that Wash was happy he was alive. They’d lost so many friends...

Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of slow, deep breathing. For the first time in a long time, both Freelancers slept without nightmares or being jolted awake by sudden fright or a random, stray impulse.

The soft light of dawn had started filling the room when Wash started to wake up, the soft sound of whispering voices drifting through the air.

“... need to leave some blankets here or something if this is going to become a regular thing.”

“They could have just cuddled up together if they got cold.”

“Are you serious? North’s legs are literally hanging off the end of the couch. _Donut_ wouldn’t fit on there with him. He’s a _giant_.”

“You _do_ like ‘em big, don’t you?”

“Oh my _God_ , we are not having that conversation.”

“You are _so lame_.” The second speaker sighed. “They look like a pair of passed out drunks. Just the sweetest. All they need to finish the look are matching beer bottles.”

There was a rustle from the other couch.

“I’m a little disturbed that’s the first description you went with,” North mumbled.

“You mean you don’t expect the most lowbrow comparisons ever from those two?” Wash asked, reluctantly opening his eyes. Before his vision could swim into focus, a blur of yellow and brown bounced down onto the couch beside him.

“Good morning!” Kaikaina greet him, a wide smile on her face. Her hair was already braided for the day and hung over one shoulder as she leaned into the curve of his body, her arm coming to rest on his hip. Wash instinctively pressed back into the back cushions some, arching his back more so she had more room.

Grif, meanwhile, bent over the other couch, poking and prodding North until he reluctantly pushed himself upright. Immediately, Grif dropped into the vacant spot and folded his arms behind his head. Before he could get too comfortable, North flopped back down, this time on his side so he could bury his face in the other man’s stomach. A series of muffled, indignant mumbles about not wanting to get up floated into the air and Grif visibly bit back a laugh, dropping a hand down to rest on North’s shoulder.

“Good news,” Grif reported in a cheerful voice. “Kimball left a message that the Blue’s mission was a success and there were no casualties. They’re en route back and should land before lunch.”

“Oh! That’s-- that’s really good,” Wash replied.

North raised an arm slightly into the air, briefly flashing a thumbs-up before dropping it back down.

“Aww, is he always this dopey in the morning?” Kai asked. She was leaning forward slightly, watching North with wide-eyed fascination.

“Sometimes.”

“Historically, North doesn’t become human until he’s had coffee,” Wash explained, his mind flashing back to the _Mother of Invention_. He bit back a yawn. The couch wasn’t terrible and Kai very warm as she sat in front of his stomach. It was like she’d soaked up light and heat from the sun, carrying it with her wherever she went. He had the sudden urge to play hooky for the day and just go back to sleep.

“Nooope!” Kai exclaimed, reached up to jab a finger into his face. “I can’t believe I’m telling _you_ this but you gotta get up. We need to go have breakfast so we can go train. I wanna go on the next Blue Team mission and you haven’t cleared me for that yet. And Palomo found a thing he’s calling a gravity hammer I want to try.”

“You _really_ don’t need to do that,” Grif grumbled. “I’m sure Kimball could use help with-- something. That doesn’t put you in combat.”

Kai stuck her tongue out with a soft _nyaah_ sound.

“No, no, she’s right, we need to get up.” With a soft sigh, Wash pulled himself upright, absently reaching out to use Kai’s shoulder as leverage. “What are you two doing up already, anyways?”

The siblings let out identical groans.

“Sarge. Just-- don’t ask, man.” Grif sighed. “Let’s just move on from the awful, awful fact that the sun’s barely up. And you,” he added, turning his attention to the man using his lap as a pillow. “If I don’t get to sleep in, you sure as hell don’t.”

After much harassment, North eventually ended up standing upright next to the couch. He did not look happy about it. As Wash climbed to his feet, North took the opportunity to lean in for a kiss.  “Morning,” he sighed as he pulled away.

“Good morning, indeed.” Grif tipped his head back with amusement. “To you and your morning breath.” 

“Hey!”

“Alright, people, let’s get moving before the mess hall runs out of coffee,” Wash ordered. He took a moment to twist back and forth, stretching tired muscles.

Kai thrust her arms into the air, causing her tank top to ride up. “Yes! Caffeine!” Cheerfully, she bounced towards the door, hoping from one foot to the other as she waited for the men to catch up.

“You don’t _need it_.” Grif paused briefly as he passed her, giving her a knowing look. Kai merely stuck her tongue out at him again as she hurried after him.

North smiled faintly as the door swung shut, cutting off the sound of a new argument. Glancing over at Wash, their eyes met for a moment. Then, nodding briefly, he squeezed between the narrow gap between the couches and followed.

Wash felt a small bubble of happiness creep into his chest at the silent gesture. Between their conversation last night and the unexpected cheer this morning… It looked like things between him and North were on the mend. With a smile of his own, Wash raced to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there's a scene or anything you'd like to see! I'm hard at work at the sequel story, "On the Rocks" but I'd love to keep pumping out one-shots!


	7. Gold is Just Another Word for Shiny Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army runs on its stomach which makes Gold Team's scavenging runs a dangerous necessity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first OC in this AU! She's tiny and adorable and I love her.

Being on medical leave had its advantages. And despite what the Reds and Blues (and, well, everyone else) assumed, Grif didn’t spend all of it napping and eating. In fact, he spent most of it prowling through the outskirts of Armonia, often with the members of Gold Team at his side.

As they moved cautiously from house to house or building to building, wary of landmines and traps, Grif expanded on the lessons he’d taught them during the months they’d hidden away in the New Republic base. Because while many of the these structures had been abandoned and without power for years, it was still possible to find food, medicine, and other supplies if you knew where to look.

Over the past month, Matthews had discovered a knack for picking mechanical locks and spotting hidden compartments. His hands, shaky at first, had grown fast and confident as he broke into locked closets, opened sealed storage containers, and once even got them into a _bank vault_.

While Matthews worked, Bitters prowled the area, scanning constantly for danger, explosives, and enemy forces. He and Grif bickered constantly over the proper way to be a lookout and how to talk your way out of a bind but he never hesitated when Grif gave him an order. Seeing the ruined playgrounds and schools of his childhood sat about as well as spoiled rations but his captain pushed him past the horror and pain until he could really _look_ and read the street, to see the possible dangers left behind by years of urban combat.

The final member of Gold Team, Maggs Linzi, was their ace-in-the-hole when their explorations hit a snag. Barely sixteen years old, Linzi had survived on her own for years before joining the New Republic. Grif had taken an almost unseemly delight in improving her pickpocketing skills and the diminutive girl was quickly empowered by his easy admiration of her determination to survive. Instead of looking at her in disgust or sorrow, he complimented her on her resourcefulness whenever she mentioned crawling through dumpsters to search for food or conning her way into a shelter for the night.

Smaller than any of the men by almost a foot (almost too small to fit in an adult-sized suit of armor), Linzi didn’t hesitate to crawl across a rickety, half-broken catwalk or to scale fallen support beams. Grif always growled at her to be careful _(I’m not carrying your stupid broken ass back to base, idiot)_ but he trusted her judgement when she thought they’d found someone’s abandoned survival cache. She’d been right every time, after all.

“Captain Grif, sir, we found another underground bunker!” Matthews reported cheerfully. “It looks completely untouched!”

Grif turned from where he’d been scanning the street with Bitters and eyed their latest target. “Well, that’s not creepy at all,” he said after a moment. “How the fuck has nobody been in there before now?”

“Big ass pile of debris and a few explosives. Up till now, it was probably too big a hassle to explore,” Linzi called out from her perch on top the pile of rubble. “The mines should be easy as shit to disarm, though,” she added as she peered through the mess of rock and weeds.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on. Don’t do anything yet.”

They were in the heart of one of the suburban areas ringing Armonia, exploring a new set of streets recently cleared by EOD. Clearly, the bomb squad hadn’t done nearly as good a job as they claimed.

“Bitters, you and Matthews do another sweep of the area, see if there are any other _fun surprises_ nearby,” Grif ordered with grimace.

“Yeah, we’re on it.” Bitters shook his head. “Feds can’t do a single damn thing right.”

“It was a _Republic_ squad that did the sweep,” Grif corrected sharply. “Chill out, we’re all on the same side now.”

A snort. “If you say so.”

“Linzi, show me,” Grif called as he hurried over to the rubble.

The petite girl scrambled down the rubble, dropping down next to him.

“Right, so this is a pretty solid middle-class street, right?” she began. “Decent sized yards, houses are mostly local stone instead of pre-fab. When the war started, middle-class people went crazy building shelters and hoarding supplies, all thinking it would be over soon. Should find some goodies if we can get in there.”

“Where are the bombs?” The rubble was mostly made up of the collapsed remains of the house next door, a mix of red and brown stone, slate shingles, and long, warped pieces of wood intersecting the entire heap. The grass and weeds underneath had grown wild, pushing up through the gaps and further obstructing the bomb shelter doors.

“Two under the rubble and another next to the door. I think. Haven't gotten in there yet.”

Stooping to follow Linzi’s pointing finger, Grif nodded as he spotted the mines. By some miracle, the debris had fallen all around the explosives and there were even several open spots nearby where the wooden beams were holding back the rubble.

Absently tracking Bitters and Matthews as they cautiously poked around the area, Grif straightened back up. “What do you need to get in there?” he asked.

“Just a spotter for now,” she confidently replied. “I shouldn’t have any trouble reaching the shelter but moving anything else is going to require shifting the rubble.”

“Which could set off the bombs. So awesome.” Sighing, Grif debated how to proceed. This was the part he hated about their scavenging runs. One wrong decision and they’d all get blown to pieces, leaving Kimball to explain to the Reds and Blues (and _North_ ) what the hell had happened.

Grif missed last week’s adventure breaking into the First Bank of Chorus. That had been _fun_.

“Can you disarm these?” he asked. “We might be able to get Matthews in there if you need a second pair of hands.”

“Fuck yes, I can disarm these.” Linzi almost sounded _offended_. “These are the same shitty pressure plate mines I’ve been disarming for years. I don't need Matthews for these. Besides, he’s just a kid. He doesn't have the nerves for this crap.”

“You are _three months older_ than him.”

“Girls mature fast, Captain. Three months is like three _years_ for teenagers.”

“Uh, yeah, no.” Crossing his arms, Grif gave her a _look_ that burned straight through his visor. “Baby sister, remember? That might work on Simmons but I literally lived through her teenaged years. I know you better than _you do_.”

Flapping her hand impatiently, Linzi started crawling back up the rubble heap. “I got this.”

“ _Slowly_ , Linzi. Grey’s out of prosthetics so if you blow your hand off, you're out of the game.”

Grif felt his blood pressure skyrocketing as the sixteen year old girl started to wind her way through rubble. The raw exposed edges of the stones and concrete scraped against her armor, screeching like nails on a chalkboard.

Bending, twisting, and contorting herself, she slid through the tiniest gaps and gingerly shifted weeds and smaller rocks out of the way as she worked her way to the bottom of the pile. It wasn't long before she disappeared entirely, leaving Grif to listen to her pant and grunt over the coms and strain to hear to the sounds of her passage. Finally, her foot appeared at the top of a clearing near the base of the rubble, then the other.

“Okay, keep going straight down,” Grif immediately said, stooping down to better guide onto the ground. “Bomb one is to your left and forward, two is way forward and on the right. You’re clear so far.”

Linzi’s feet swung slightly back and forth as she let out an annoyed grunt. “Chestplate’s caught,” she reported. “Just need-- a minute-- almost--”

Grinding his teeth together, Grif felt his blood pressure spike again. Even Matthews, baby faced and still praying for a growth spirt, was too big to get to Linzi now. This was all on her, a malnourished child-soldier who had way too much experience with bombs for anyone's peace of mind.

To the accompanying scream of scraping metal, Linzi finally freed herself and dropped to the ground, landing lightly in the confined space.

“Jesus fuck,” Grif hissed. Her armor had a long, thick gouge going straight down the right chestplate. “That’s going to take a hell of a lot of buffing to get out.”

“Hah,” Linzi painted. “Sounds awesome. Can't wait to see it. Where now?”

“Crouch but mind your ass. I don't like how some of that shit behind you looks.”

“Got it.” Bending her knees, Lindzi rolled onto the balls of her feet as she did a slow squat, mindful not to let her ass stick out behind her.

Soft steps suddenly approached from behind. “All clear, sir,” Bitters whispered as he drew close.

“Is she alrea-” Matthews started, only to be frantically hushed by the other soldier. “Sorry,” he whispered when he realized his mistake.

At the bottom of the rubble heap, Linzi let out a relieved sigh when she finish her squat without jostling anything. Everything was _so sensitive_ at the very bottom. One wrong move and she’d collapse the debris on top of her or set of a chain reaction that triggered the bombs.

“Okay, ready to get to bomb one,” she reported.

“Go forward but keep your head way the fuck down,” Grif ordered. “Go slower than slow.”

“Yessir.”

The men watched nervously as Linzi half crawled and half crab-walked her way forward. She paused several times to change angles or twist under a plank, moving slow enough that when her head hit something, it didn't immediately collapse on top of her.

Finally, she reached the first bomb. “I am awesome,” she breathed. Pausing to take a few deep breaths, she drew several long, thin metal tools out from under the armor plate on her forearm and set to work.

First, she had to clear away the grass and weeds that had grown up around the explosive, hands and tools cutting and pulling away the plant life without hitting the bomb or anything that mind be concealed around it. Then, she slid the flat edge of one of her tools under the edge of the pressure plate, carefully prying off the cover. It was rusted in several places, the thin gap sealed by the reddish-orange flakes, and she had to be careful not to exert any downwards pressure as she slid her tools through the oxidized crust.

The entire team let out a relieved breath once the cover popped free. Switching on her external helmet light, Linzi took a minute to examine the interior mechanism. “Firing pin’s bent,” she finally announced. “This thing isn’t blowing unless we hit it with a hammer.”

“Lovely. _Get it out of there_ ,” Grif ordered.

“On it, Captain.” Replacing the cover plate was much faster than removing it. Before picking it up, however, she paused to study the area around the bomb, then stooped over to peer underneath once she knew where she could safely put her hands. “Nothing underneath that I can see,” she added. “Bitters, stick an arm in here, you’ve got the longest reach.”

Carefully scooping up the explosive, Linzi waited until she saw where her teammate’s hand appeared before moving. After a minute of careful movement, she placed the mine in his open palm and watched as he drew his hand back.

“Put that somewhere safe and mark it,” Grif ordered. “Bomb squad can take care of it. Linzi, take a minute before you move on to the next one.”

“I’m _fine_.” The roll of her eyes was audible in her voice.

“I don't give a crap,” Grif snapped back at her. “Sit and take a breather.” Damned fucking _teenagers_. Always rushing ahead.

By the time Bitters had taken away the bomb and returned, Linzi was approaching the second device, repeating the same slow motions that had delivered her safely to the first.  When she reached and started her examination, she was relieved to be able to report that it was a dud: it had already ‘fired’ and hadn't gone off. Once more, she passed it back to Bitters and took the required break.

The third bomb, however, was completely functional and live. There was silence as she delicately worked to remove the firing pin, painfully aware that a single mistake would kill them all.

 _“Got it._ ”

 _“Awesome_ work, Linz. Pull it and we’ll start clearing some of this shit away.”

After carrying the bomb to Bitters, Linzi kept watch as the men started to clear the rubble, ready to alert them the moment something shifted in an unexpected way or if they uncovered another potential threat.

After almost an hour of labor, a small path had been cleared from the street where their Warthog was parked and the door to the shelter where it was tucked up against the house that had caught their attention.

Grif ordered Bitters and Matthews to take a break then hurried to join Linzi at the angled doors. The teenaged girl was carefully examining the angled metal doors and the surrounding concrete frame. Switching on his own helmet light, Grif started scanning the top of the doorframe, working side-to-side and down. When neither soldier saw any sign of wires or sensors, he ordered her back and hauled open one of the doors.

The rusted hinges groaned and the dented door squealed as it was forced outwards. It took both hands for Grif to get it all the way open and the still-healing shrapnel wounds in his shoulder twinged painfully at the sudden exertion.

Before he could stop her, Linzi peered around him and then dashed forward, head sweeping side to side as she ran her helmet light across the stairs descending into the darkness below.

“Slow down!” Grif barked as she vanished into the cellar-like space. “We don’t know what’s down there!”

“Captain, we hit the _jackpot_ ,” she gushed, voice floating up the stairs. “This is _aweso-_ oh.”

“What is it?” Racing down the stairs as fast as he dared, Grif’s mind started spinning out all the ways Linzi could have gotten into trouble.

“Um, the family that built the shelter is… they’re still here.”

Stepping behind her, Grif followed Linzi’s gaze, sighing softly as he saw the remains huddled against the far wall. Wordlessly, he reached out and rested a hand on his soldier’s shoulder, knowing very well how much she hated bodies.

Grif _liked_ Linzi. She was smart (not as smart as she thought she was but-- teenager) and resourceful. She handled herself well and didn’t take crap from anyone. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of himself-- and his sister. The others teased him about the superficial similarities between himself and Bitters but Linzi’s life was a sad echo of his and Kai’s. And he didn’t want her to grow to adulthood thinking that no one would ever be on her side.

As Linzi took a moment to gather herself, Grif took a look around, suppressing an amazed whistle at what they’d found. Jackpot was _right_. Whatever this family had died of, it wasn’t starvation. The shelter was almost entirely filled with shelving and nearly every bit of it was jam packed with MREs and canned goods.

Giving the young girl’s shoulder a friendly pat, Grif walked back over to the stairs. “Get the crates off the Warthog,” he called up. “Matthews, you’re on packing duty. Bitters, keep watch.”

“Yes, sir!” two voices replied.

“Alright, back to it, Linz,” Grif ordered turning back around. “Let’s check for traps.”

Fortunately, the shelter was clean of obvious danger. Matthews appeared with the collapsible crates they’d brought with them and they fell into a familiar rhythm as they packed the supplies. Grif and Linzi went through the shelves, Grif high and her low, examining each item and checking for any sign of contamination. Anything damaged or punctured in some way was pulled off the shelf and shoved in a corner so it didn’t get transported back to base by mistake. Matthews followed along behind rapidly packing the approved items into the crates which then got stacked at the base of the stairs. Once Grif and Linzi had checked the final shelves, Grif had her help Matthew while he started ferrying the crates up and out of the shelter. Bitters maintained an alert patrol while they worked underground, pacing back and forth with his trackers on, weapon gripped in steady hands.

In the end, they had to repurpose several containers in the shelter in order to get everything packed. The pile of food and medical supplies was a heartening sight when they cleared the last shelf and left the shelter. Grif took a moment to force the door closed once more, then tagged it with a red X to keep other soldiers out.

“Captain Grif, this was the best scavenging run you’ve ever led us on!” Matthews enthused once he was done.

“Oh for-- Matthews, what did I tell you about sucking up?” Grif demanded.

The young soldier shifted sheepishly in place. “Um, that it just puts you in the perfect spot to get kicked in the teeth?”

“Yeah, exactly. So _stop it_. Not everyone will be as _nice_ as me in the future.”

Matthews hung his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He looked and sounded like a kicked puppy.

“Just-- help me get this shit packed,” Grif sighed.

If they hadn’t had a tow-car hooked up to the Warthog, they would have had to make multiple trips. Fortunately, the extra cargo space was standard issue for their scavenging runs now that they were sticking to Armonia’s city limits and surrounding suburbs. As it was, both Linzi and Matthews had to activate the magnetic locks on their boots and hold on to the machine gun in order to fit on the jeep with all the goods

The sun was just starting to set by the time Gold Team pulled up behind the mess hall. Having radioed ahead once they were close, several soldiers were waiting at the backdoor to help unload the supplies. After a brief farewell and with the keys to the Warthog safely in Bitters’s hands, Grif left his team and went to go find Kimball.

The New Republic general was finished up paperwork in her small office when Grif finally arrived.

“I heard you had some success,” she stated when he knocked on her door and poked his head in.

“Yeah, found a Doomsday cultists stash or something,” he replied pulling off his helmet as he came inside. He collapsed onto the chair in front of her desk with a sigh of relief. His shoulder absolutely _ached_. “There’s at least one meal for the army if everything’s good. And some medical supplies for Grey to look at.”

“Even one meal is good news,” Kimball agreed. With a soft sigh, she dropped her stylus and rubbed her tired face, flicking away a lock of frizzy black hair. “None of the other scavenging teams have found anything major. Of course, they’re not pushing out as far as you are.”

Grif shrugged. “Gotta take risks if we’re going to keep eating. If we don’t eat, we die.”

“Very true. You’re also the only group I _trust_ to venture out that far and come back alive.” She gave him a wry look. “So tell me, are the outer regions of Armonia more or less dangerous than the towns you took your team through back at the old base?”

“Oh, this is _definitely_ more dangerous,” Grif replied with a perfectly bland voice and expression. “After all, I would _never_ have taken my team out before if I thought there was any possible danger.”

He got a sardonic look in response and bit back a grin. He remembered how Kimball had blown her top at him when she found out about the little excursions he’d been taking his team out on. But it was true: without taking risks, they’d run out of food. Without food, they would die. He’d learned that lesson at an early age. The only reason she hadn’t shot him then and there was because they _were_ only going out once or twice a week. And _only_ in the opposite direction of any Federal forces in the area.

It had never been his intention to get any of his team hurt or killed. And so far he’d avoided it. The only member of Gold Team that had been hurt was _him_. And he had every intention of keeping it that way. 

Tapping her fingers on her desk, Kimball tilted her head. “Do you want to take your team out again?” she asked.

“Nah.” Grif shook his head. “Linzi is getting cocky. And when she gets cocky, Matthews is usually only a step or two behind her. I want to let Wash drag ‘em around the training field a bit, remind them they aren’t the Big Shits they’re feeling like right now. That just makes them stupid.”

“Well, they are teenagers,” Kimball agreed. There was a flash of pain in her eyes despite the humor in her tone. Too much of her army _and_ Doyle’s were practically or literally children and they _hated_ that they had no other choice but to keep and use them.

“In any case,” Kimball finally continued, pushing on, “thank you again, Captain Grif, for your help. We desperately need all the supplies we can get and you’re doing far more than anyone could ask for.”

Cheeks darkening, Grif quickly pulled his helmet back on and stood up. “I just want to keep eating, General. Have a good night.”

“You too, Captain. You too.”


	8. Happy Thoughts and Haircuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caboose needs a haircut

“Dude, you need a haircut.”

Caboose’s back went stiff, shoulders tightening as he drew himself up. Elbows tucked into his sides, his hands clutched his helmet as it rested on his lap. “I do not need a haircut,” Caboose declared, staring down his nose at the other Blue. “It is just the right length to hear the happy thoughts from everyone around me.” 

Groaning into his off-color, powdered scrambled eggs, Tucker took a moment to glance up at the ceiling, silently praying for patience. Then, giving Caboose a level look, “That’s not how hair works, dumbass.”

Snorting and rolling his eyes, Caboose picked up his fork and dug into his own breakfast. “Of course, it is. That is why bald people are sad all the time. Or grumpy.”

“Oh yeah? Then why is it chicks with long hair always get mad at me?” 

“Probably because they don’t like the thoughts their hair is picking up from you.” Caboose nodded sagely and took another bite of eggs. “You must not be thinking happy thoughts around them.”

“Oh, I’m thinking happy thoughts,” Tucker replied. He jabbed his fork at the other man. “Very happy thoughts. All about happy endings and shit.”

Washington stopped just short of the table, tray clutched in his armored hands. “For the love of god, why are you talking about  _ happy endings _ at breakfasts?” he demanded. A new hint of aggravation entered his voice. “I already  _ told you _ that neither no one wants to even  _ hear _ your plans for a massage parlor. Let alone  _ open _ one.” 

Flapping his hand impatiently, Tucker jerked his head towards Caboose. “Yeah, whatever. That ship has sailed. Caboose needs a haircut, right? I mean, look at him. It’s all in his eyes.”

Shaking his head, Wash set his tray down and took the seat next to Tucker, silently resigning himself to the fact that it was going to be one of  _ those _ mornings. 

The small round table tucked in a corner far from the serving line had served as the unofficial Blue Team table since the move to Armonia. Wash liked it because he not only had sight lines on all the doors in and out of the mess hall but because he could also put his back to the wall.  Tucker was happy because it all meant he could get Wash to eat breakfast most mornings instead of downing an MRE while heading to the training grounds.

Once he’d pulled off his helmet and gauntlets, stacking them on the table on the far side of his tray, Wash dug in to eat. “I’ve known people who had wilder hair under their helmets,” he finally replied. “Of course,” he paused to swallow, “they were highly trained Special Forces. So. I dunno.” Taking several more bits, Wash squinted at Caboose.

The third member of Blue Team ate without a care in the world. His round face and tanned skin seemed to glow under the harsh overhead lights and his blue armor glistened. The overlong curls that had drawn Tucker’s ire gave him a cherubic appearance as they fell in a messy mop-like heap around his head.

“According to Caboose,” Tucker informed him in a dry voice, “long hair lets him sense people’s emotions.”

“I do not sense emotions,” Caboose interrupted with exasperation. “My  _ hair _ feels people’s happy feelings and then shares those feelings with me.”

“Really. So what’s Wash feeling right now?”

Pursing his lips, Caboose stared intently at the Freelancer, who sat and ate in silent amusement as he looked back.

“Agent Washington is tired and worried about training,” Caboose finally concluded.

A snort. “Yeah, like that’s new.” Turning to Wash, Tucker made a  _ come on _ gesture. “Seriously, you’ve gotta do something about this. He’s a wreck. He’s totally bringing Blue Team down! Even your shitty hair looks better than his!”

Wash raised a self-conscious hand to his graying blond hair. “My hair doesn’t look shitty. Does it?” 

“One hair crisis at a time, man. Let’s stay focused on Caboose.”

“You’re  _ really _ fixated on this.” With a soft sigh, Wash dropped his hand back onto the table and turned to back to Caboose. “When’s the last time you got a haircut, Caboose?” he asked. He couldn’t recall this ever coming up before.

“I do not get haircuts. The hair that gets cut off becomes sad that it is being left behind. And I do not like sad things.” 

“Okay, but you’ve gotten it cut before,” Wash responded. “It’s be as long as Kai’s otherwise. So who cut it before now?”

Caboose’s hands flew to cover his mouth, eyes wide. “Sister is not here!” he whispered through his fingers. “She will miss breakfast! And that is the most important meal of the day!”

“No, Kaikaina is in medical today getting a physical. Her and North both.” A stern expression came down over Wash’s face. “I need you to answer the question, Caboose. No dodging the question. Or--” he paused for a moment, reconsidering. “Can you tell me where you were last time you got your hair cut?”

Shoulders slumping, Caboose let his hands fall into his lap when his attempted distraction failed. Finally, he let out a soft _ huff _ . “Me and all the Reds were in the valley and we were in our bases on Valhalla when someone cut my hair. I did not like it. It tickled and my neck got all wet.”

“Valhalla? So-- that’s the base you were at before we met, right?” Caboose nodded. “Weren’t you alone at the Valhalla Blue Base?” Another nod. “So it must have been one of the Reds. Donut?”

“Nah, man,” Tucker interjected, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. “Donut was with me at the desert temple. So that leaves Sarge, Simmons, and Grif.”

“Which of them did you ask to give you a haircut?” It was hard to picture  _ any _ of the Reds besides Donut cutting hair. Judging by the look on Tucker’s face, he was just as curious about the answer as Wash was.

“I did not  _ ask _ to get a haircut.”

“Nitpicking,” Tucker muttered. 

Indeed. Time for a different tactic, Wash decided. “Okay, then why don’t you tell me about how you ended up  _ getting _ a haircut?”

If anything, this question made Caboose wilt even further, his broad shoulders collapsing while his head sank onto his chest. It was a dramatic moment, a melodramatic deflation acted out by one of the biggest and tallest members of the Reds and Blues. It was, in fact, so completely over the top that neither Wash nor Tucker could decide whether to be alarmed or amused.

Caboose sighed, his shoulder surging up then down. “I lost the blue flag,” he said in a miserable voice. “We were all doing our own thing. I was fixing Epsilon, the Reds were yelling about things all the time, and sometimes we would pretend to fight.”

“That sounds pretty normal,” Tucker replied, still sitting slouched in his chair, an expression of fascination on his face.

“Yeah, it was all pretty nice. Buuut, every now and then, Grif would sneak into Blue Base and he’d steal the flag. And he would order me around for awhile until he got bored and gave it back.”

Wash raised a hand as Tucker opened his mouth. “What kind of things would he order you to do?”

“Oh, just the  _ worst _ kind of stuff,” Caboose pouted. “He’d make me clean the kitchen and the bathroom and wash all my clothes and sheets and towels. It, ugh, it was just  _ awful _ .”

“Where you not already doing those things?” Wash demanded with some incredulity. 

“I was fixing Epsilon!” Caboose protested. 

“So that answer’s no.” Tucker started to gesture with a hand, then froze, fingers twitching. Dropping it back onto his arm, he drummed his fingers for a moment. “What else did Grif do when he took over Blue Base?”

“Well, while I was doing all the stupid work, he’d go through all my food and yell at me that he was going to start taking my food if I didn’t eat more and just-- that was just too much. I always made sure to eat more after he’d taken the flag because I did not want to give any of it to him.” There was satisfaction in Caboose’s eyes as he nodded. “That was Blue Team food, not Red.”

Wash was hiding his mouth with his hand. “Anything else?” he asked, voice slightly strangled and cheeks twitching.

“Weeell, after I did all the work around Blue Base, he’d make me go take a shower because he said I was all sweaty and gross and. And. After I’d shower--” Caboose’s voice dropped into a whisper.  _ “He’d cut my hair.” _

“That sounds just awful.” Unlike Wash, Tucker didn’t try to hide his amusement. “I can’t believe Grif would make you clean, bath, and eat on a regular basis. Just-- make sure you were following basic grooming and hygiene standards. That’s just dastardly.” 

Nodding in agreement, Wash propped his elbows on the table and leaned his head on his hands. “I bet you found the blue flag after all that, though, didn’t you?”

“Oh, every time. You know, it was funny, Grif would be dumping all my cut hair in the trash and the flag would be  _ right there _ . Just sitting on the counter or the table or even on the floor. It’s, it’s like he just wanted to order me around for a few hours and then got bored.”

“Well, Grif is a lazy bastard with little to no consideration for other people.” Tucker shot Wash a look, knowing he, at last, would hear the sarcasm.

“Mm, obviously,” Wash murmured. “Caboose, could you do me a favor? Could you go on ahead to the training grounds and have everyone start running laps? I need to talk to Tucker for a few minutes so I’ll be a little late.”

“Me?” Caboose’s eyes went wide before he beamed. “I would be happy to, Agent Washington! I will have them run all the laps!” He immediately began fumbling with his helmet and gloves, eager to take on this new task.

“We’ll take care of your tray,” Tucker added once Caboose had pulled all his gear back on. They exchanged final waves goodbye as the soldier sprang to his feet and hurried away. “So Grif used to cut his hair,” Tucker mused as he stared at Caboose’s retreating back.

“And make sure he was taking care of himself. Not, you know, starve to death. Or die in his own filth because he’d gotten hyperfocused on fixing Epsilon.” Wash finished. He shook his head. “I have to admit, it’s hard to picture.”

“Nah, he just hates people knowing he cares. Used to pull this kind of shit all the time back in Blood Gulch.”

“Alright, so what now? I’m guessing he’ll flip out if we ask him outright.”

Nodding, Tucker hoisted himself back upright. “Complete and total meltdown. He hates showing emotional stuff. It’s one of the reasons this whole thing between him and North is so weird.”

“There is something to that,” Wash admitted. He stared down at his breakfast for a moment, shoveling around the last bit of eggs. “So, what, we should just mention that he needs a haircut when Grif’s nearby?”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

“Not right now,” Wash admitted. With one final look at his tray, he shook his head and dropped his fork onto his plate. “Well, let’s see what happens. This should be interesting.”


	9. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been sitting on this piece for a while. Glad it's finally done!

Two facts rule Simmons’ life:

1) Simmons is a Red.

2) Simmons loves Dexter Grif.

The foundation had been laid back on a bridge during Red Army Basic where Grif talked him through a panic attack, rambling on and on about nonsense until the towering drop below didn’t seem quite so horrific.

Their time together in Blood Gulch deepened their slowly growing friendship, though it was admittedly more out of necessity than anything else; there was literally no one else to talk to during the early days. They’d survived the Blues and Tex and aliens and insane A.I. together. By the time the first round of Freelancer drama had ended and he and Grif transferred to Rat’s Nest, he had become hyperaware of Grif’s presence and just being near him made his pulse race and butterflies to take flight in his gut.

Being around Grif had become a soothing balm to his easily stressed nerves. With Grif, he could just be… himself. The Dick Simmons no one had ever accepted, not his mother or father, not any of his schoolmates, or any of the soldiers in the military units he’d been transferred in and out of before Project Freelancer. For all that Grif teased him about being a nerd and his spreadsheets, Grif was more than willing to marathon old scifi TV shows and bicker about comic book characters and stories. He and Grif were a pair, a unit. Attached at the hip, some people commented. _Space married,_ Tucker teased. _(“It’s like being actually married but not because you’re both fucking idiots.”)_

Despite all the years they’d been together, though, Simmons had never been able to actually _tell Grif_ how he felt. They’d shared secrets, stories, family histories - exposed bits and pieces of themselves as they grew more comfortable together. But there’d never been a lot of talk about dating. No mention of past lovers other than Grif bragging about hooking up with mainlander girls vacationing in Hawaii. Simmons was very good at finding patterns and trends. And there was one pattern in Grif’s past love life: he’d never dated or hooked up with a guy.

There was a distinct possibility that, should Simmons told Grif that he loved him - that he’d loved him for years - the other man would cringe and wince, awkwardly tell him _Sorry, I don’t feel the same way. I’m just not into guys_. Every moment after would be tainted, bogged down by Simmons’ unwelcom emotional baggage. Worst of all, he might lose the best friend he’s ever had.

Two, no, three facts ruled Simmons’ life:

1) Simmons is a Red.

2) Simmons loves Dexter Grif.

3) Dexter Grif will never love him back.

* * *

_Love: noun_

_An intense feeling of deep affection._

Simmons really, really wanted to hate Agent North Dakota. He was everything Simmons had ever wanted to be: a respected soldier, skilled strategist, and a deadly marksman. On a more personal level, he was warm and friendly, always ready to offer advice if asked or just to listen if you just needed time to vent. And on top of all _that_ , he was easily one of the most attractive men on Chorus. He had all the classic Hollywood traits: blonde hair, blue eyes, tall - towering, actually. North loomed over everyone, even Caboose. He looked like he’d been digitally enlarged to be 130% the size of a regular human and had a perfect V-shaped torso and incredibly broad shoulders.

In contrast, Simmons was kind of tall but mostly gangly, all awkward angles, lean muscles, and mismatched parts. His curly red hair frizzled uncontrollably in Armonia’s humid air and the organic parts of his face flushed anytime someone teased or aggravated him.

By all rights, Simmons should hate North. For being everything he’d only ever dreamed of. For sliding neatly into Red Team like he’d been there since Blood Gulch. For falling in love with Grif and having Grif love him back.

But he couldn’t.

After the fight at the jamming station and they all finally had a chance to breath back at the New Republic base, Sarge had dragged his troops all into one of the barracks and informed North that if he was going to date someone on Red Team (even Grif), he had to do it _as_ a member of Red Team. With his purple armor, Sarge growled, North was already teetering dangerously close to being tainted by the Blues. And only an oath of eternal allegiance to the Red Army could save him.

Visibly suppressing a laugh, North obligingly became a Red. Grif had snorted and rolled his eyes, trying to hide his approval from behind his usual veil of apathy. Donut quivered with noticeable excitement that he wasn’t the newest member of Red Team anymore. And Simmons? He’d given him a copy of the Red Army Handbook, a briefing document with their official contingency plans, and a list of their current comm frequencies.

While North repeated Sarge’s convoluted Red Army oath and obediently spilled a few drops of blood onto a hastily prepared contract, Simmons imagined striding heroically out of the barracks after revealing the former Freelancer a fraud: The mighty Freelancer on his knees in shame for pretending to be a Badass. In his fantasy, Grif raced after him, insisting his relationship with North had been a minor fling, that it didn’t mean anything -- _please, the person I really want is you._

Simmons wanted to hate North _so much_. Because he’d been in love with Grif for years and years and North was a _Freelancer_ who’d gotten everything Simmons had ever craved in just a few months.

But he couldn’t. He just _couldn’t bring himself to hate him_. Because North really was a genuinely nice guy. He didn’t try to take command of Red Team. He loaded the comm frequencies into his helmet and started memorizing their insane contingency plans. He didn’t try to _change_ the Reds to fit his style, he adapted to _them_.

More importantly, that first night all together in the New Republic base (before Grif and North got their own room), Grif broke the awkward silence that had fallen by announcing that _North’s a D &D nerd like you, Simmons, and seriously, talk about that if you can’t think of anything else_.

And Goddamn it all, it had worked.

Despite trying to come up with more reasons to hate Agent North Dakota, Simmons found himself drawn into a lively discussion about the different rules sets they’d both played. They each had their favorite but North hadn’t been able to try the latest edition and _how well was the combat balanced with the role play elements?_

While Donut listened in fascination and Grif rolled over to sleep, Simmons and North reminisced about old characters and campaigns. Simmons had always favored crafty, clever spellcasters while North leaned towards dashing and heroic melee fighters and paladins. And unlike Simmons, North had actually _run_ games before. Grinning widely, North’s big hands had flown through the air as he described the campaign he’d written for some of the soldiers in an old unit - several of whom had been pleasantly surprised at how much fun it could be and how well it gave them something to think about besides the war for a few hours a week.

By the time they’d all transferred to Armonia, even Simmons had to admit that underneath his deadly Freelancer exterior, North was actually a pretty cool, chill guy and actually seemed like he… he wanted to be friends.

* * *

 _Love: verb  
_ _Feeling a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone)._

Donut called Grif and North a Power Couple and harassed them constantly for details about how’d they met, what made them decide to start dating, when did they realize they loved each other, and so on. There was no detail too small or mundane for the determined soldier.

It was… really, really hard to sit through those conversations. Grif never wanted to talk about it but North could be pestered into answering and _holy crap_ , Simmons had never experienced so much secondhand embarrassment in his _life_ after sitting through some of those conversations.

North talked about Grif is glowing terms, his somewhat haggard face lighting up as he recounted the many nights of drinking and talking (and hinted at far more intimate activities). Simmons agreed with a lot of what North said - Grif _did_ care, he _did_ look after people, he _did_ have a sly humor that a lot of people missed - but North got downright sentimental sometimes, lips curling into a small smile as his eyes grew distant, mind lingering on one memory or another. During those moments, Simmons felt like a peeping tom.

On the other end of the spectrum, Grif resolutely refused to “dish” on details about himself and North, much to Donut’s disappointment. But that didn’t mean there weren’t clues in his behavior, small subtle signs that hinted at just how strong the Hawaiian’s feelings were for the other man.

For one thing, North could actually get Grif to _do stuff_. Grif’s hand-to-hand skills had markedly improved since they’d met and it had been a long time since he’d just napped all day.

Most dramatically of all, Grif’s general health had improved. He was still big and hefty with a well-padded frame, but he carried his bulk better and moved lighter and easier on his feet. He’d added a fair amount of muscle during the months he’d spent hiking back and forth between the New Republic base and the bar he’d met North in.

Simmons was thrilled to see Grif finally starting to take care of himself. He wondered, though, if he could have inspired the same results. If he’d built up the courage to tell him how he felt, would Grif have been willing to work towards self improvement this way?

Maybe. Maybe not.

What was important was that they were happy. That they were both healing -- North from the terrible wounds Project Freelancer had inflicted, Grif from whatever trauma he’d suffered before being drafted into the Red Army. They understood each other, cared about each other, and took care of each other. They weren’t going to let _anything_ break them apart.

* * *

_Love: common definition_

_Giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to._

This is true: Dexter Grif and Agent North Dakota are in love.

This is also true: Simmons loves Grif and tolerates, perhaps even likes, Agent North Dakota.

Seeing them together hurts and he’s lost countless nights staring at the ceiling in his bunk, mind turning over all the things that might have been. He can’t even really say he lost Grif to North -- Grif was never his to lose. And while he may not have Grif as the romantic partner he’d imagined for years and years, Grif was still his best friend. He hadn’t been pushed aside or ignored.

Simmons hopes that someday, the facts that rule his life will be different:

1) Simmons is a Red.

2) Simmons’ best friend is Dexter Grif.

3) Simmons madly and deeply loved… someone else.


End file.
